Angie Hilker

THE LIFE I FOUND IN YOUR ROOTS

"My home is deep in the forest near the roots of the mountain." —The Two Towers

I could feel the bleakness of dim shadows hovering over me as I sunk low to the shower floor. The hot water rushing down my back left little desire without a comfortable embrace.

I watched as a water droplet began to form on the top left of the shower door. It suddenly shook itself free and glided down the plaited film glass. Then, stopping for a momentary pause, it pooled in one of the rough pivots until suddenly it broke through once more and dripped all the way swiftly down till it reached the tile bottom.

When you have enough time to watch water droplets meander down the rim of your shower door, you are probably not doing too well; most likely waffling on the side of misfortune coping through heartache, struggle, grief, or like me, feeling utterly sick.

Technically, all seven of us in the family were sick. As a result, we were miserable and entirely useless to each other.

Quarantined in our house with nowhere to go, we were quite a group. The rooms were crowded and filled to the brim with an unhygienic infestation of coughing, a conglomerate of essential oil scents, humidifiers diffusing all day, pill bottles crammed in corners on the nightstand, and used tissues were scattered on the carpet. My kids were sprawled out on blankets, with fevers, body aches, while trying to find some comfort by binge-watching Netflix, nearly piled on each other.

Each of us trying to find the means to survive.

Despite the fracture in the physical ailments, the house seemed almost dormant—hardly stirring except for the rumblings of sickness echoing down the cold, dingy hallway.

In our tired little tomb of hardly any cathartic sense of respite, I felt the weight of physical ache and desperation.

Then, something came from out of the darkness—a silhouette moved from beyond the window where the curtain panels hid away any remnant of a living soul.

A light shifted from underneath the gap of the front doorway to the outside. I could hear the soft shuffling of feet moving in the rain on the porch steps. When I finally could get up, I crept over towards the door to see that there on the porch lay a pot of stew, a bag of cookies, and seeping pears wading in dim bottles of homemade kombucha.

My heart lifted from under the shadow of someone's good grace and hospitality—a gift from the unexpected, a balm for the weary soul.

THE HEALING WAY OF TREES

Deep in the woods, our family often finds solace and comfort under the cathedral dome of trees. It's a thick forest that we frequently visit, without a distinct trail. Foxes often scurry about while the snake slithers quickly from our heels. In the bitter morning, when our boots have hit the wet blades of grass, the haze enshrouding us could almost swallow us whole within its blanket of mist. I would often crunch down on the drying leaves layered along the wet, mud-caked trail while birds called in the wild.

They say that some enjoy nature, and then there are those who study nature. My sons are two great observers of this tapestry called creation. They can hear the rumblings of words in the low humming of the grasses and the calls of the pines as they creak and groan in the distance.

Interestingly, my boys wouldn't necessarily be misguided to hear such things in their expeditions.

In fact, most likely, you've heard it too.

It's the secret life of trees.

There is a symbiotic relationship between trees that reaches deep beneath the soil that is interconnected by the roots and somehow even interlinked above the earth using pheromones and other scent signals. Trees detect distress signals from other trees, and using their deep roots, they can draw up water and send nutrients to the neighboring trees which need help. This means of communication is significant as we learn that trees are intricately designed to aid others in distress when they are confronted by drought, infestations, or even disease. And although it appears that trees are communal to their kind, they often form connections with other species of trees, sharing their resources and giving them sustenance. For example, when saplings are unable to get sunlight deep from beneath the forest's canopy, the mature trees begin to pump sugar into the roots of the sapling so that they might survive. It's also not uncommon to find felled trees still vibrantly green with chlorophyll due to other trees sending nutrients from beneath the earth.

It's the way of trees—a peculiar glory of God's handiwork crafted for us to see his goodness moving in the world and through us.

Trees are a simple glimpse of grace revealed through their outstretched limbs and seemingly knotted roots beneath the ground that teaches us what it means to hold one another close, even when we find ourselves on the underbelly of the earth where only darkness pervades.

Oddly, it's here in the darkness that I find some relief. And isn't that where it matters most. When my light has been snuffed out, it's here that I find my roots.

FINDING MY ROOTS IN YOURS

I found my roots that night as I picked up a pot of warm soup in my hands from the porch. But, interestingly, these roots weren't something I discovered in myself. I didn't hustle through the hard things or muster up some sort of façade to prove I was anything but weak. Instead, I found myself ultimately fragile yet linked into a web of carefully woven roots, pulling me into their gentle clutch.

It was in the intermingled roots of this beautiful symbiotic relationship that I deem community. It was the neighbors down the street with gifts of unrequited expectation, to the men who ventured down from the mountains in the rain with boxes of food, to the families from Bible study who lined up to help, to a package in the mail from a sister, to parents with their hot chocolate cake, to sweet girlfriends who simply saw the need and showed up.

I could see the words come to life when I combed through the story of the widow of Zarephath, who gave in faith-filled hospitality to Elijah despite her lack of resources.

I, too, was feasting on the jar of oil and flour that never runs empty because of someone's faithful roots.

THE HIDDEN LIFE OF YOUR ROOTS

The sun was setting. A pink velum streak paraded across the dull, grey sky, ensuring that not all was a loss. Still, the fading horizon—it was dreary, pale, and cold. The sickness: oh how it lingered, and the rain; oh how it inconsiderately beat against the ground. I snuck outdoors to let my feet sink into the earth beneath me while a small pool of mud formed in the grass and slowly ran over my toes. I pressed my feet deeper into the wet blades of grass because there down below was the gift that came in the dark places. I could feel the tangled roots beneath me wrapping me close.

Interesting how misery and weariness that often lingers can suddenly shift as the life of the roots silently sing beneath me—it's a divine invitation to come rest, to come and slumber at the table, to allow my wounds to be ministered to and provided for from deeply rooted people like you.

This is the hidden life of trees, the hidden life of friendship. It's quiet. It requires no banners or accolades. It's the beauty of the rooted community that weaves itself together to look after one another, soothing the desperate, the sick, the weary. They are a peculiar root reaching out, nourishing, and ministering to our souls.